24 Slate, 1052 (<- Last Year was actually 1051, not 1050), 3rd Age; Dwarven Calendar; Mid-Spring
"Sir?" said Pick. "You'd better have a look at this."
Kuja grimaced. His role as acting leader meant that when someone said Sir it was never a good sign. They headed through the defensive shaft's leisurely downward slope and out the main entrance.
Pick pointed. Squinting, Kuja could barely make out what it was.
Shit.
The reflective glint of a crossbow bolt shone in the distance. There were people, and some sort of quadrupeds. The animals were charging, and the people were running towards the fortress.
They proceeded down to the river to get a better look.
The first thing that Kuja noticed was that the immigrants had the numerical advantage. There were over a dozen of them, including one armoured warrior with a crossbow. There were only four warthog zombies. One of the zombies had an iron crossbow bolt stuck through its leg, and was lurching too slow to get there. A second bolt struck out but landed low, bouncing off the zombie's hoof.
4 to 1 odds is better than the reverse he convinced himself as he watched the migrants run for their lives. A dwarf dodged right past a warthog, who snapped and threw its tusks but could not hit the lucky one.
The marksdwarf had reloaded, and fired another bolt. This one flew true, burying itself inside the stomach of the lead warthog. Its distended stomach sprayed ichorous blood and dripped bits of long-decayed organs.
The marksdwarf pumped another two bolts into the zombie, hitting it to no effect. Finally, one shot smashed through its face, killing it.
One immobilized, one... redead? That's half already.
Another Marksdwarf came from behind his comrade from the trees and fired, missing. Still, it doubled their volume of fire.
They just might make it
The warthogs loped along at their leisurely pace, unable to move with the vigour of the living. The Dwarves fled right past them as the warthogs drew fire, only managing to attack (and miss) one dwarf and a pet cat. The warthogs waddled towards the river, intent on pursuing.
The marksdwarves continued to stand their ground at the ford of the river and put fire into the warthogs until the other two were down for the count. Celebrating, they made a hasty retreat into the fortress.
All in all, it was not nearly as epic as Pick and Kuja had worried it would be, but a quick skirmish resulting in Dwarven victory with no casualties.
Historically, this small battle demonstrated for the denizens of Palelabor two facts about the undead. Firstly, that Warthogs, it was noted, were not dangerous except in large packs. Elephants or Giant Leopards might be, though, so a military excursion by the fledgling Palelabor Free Army was not planned. But more importantly, it taught them with proper tactics the evil in the swamp was not invincible.
NEXT ON PALELABOR:
Dwarven roll call, 19 new SDN immigrants!
Post Victory Analysis:
We were lucky as hell to get a pair of marksdwarves in this wave, and would have probably taken 2-3+ casualties without the second guy. Double that for no marksman. Warthogs are, in zombie form, slow and weak enough to need to be a sort of pack hunter rather than tanks, their slow gate as zombies means we could pump fire into them and they were unlucky enough to take several leg shots pinning the closer ones nearly in place while they were subjected to heavy fire.
A repeat of this battle with larger, fiercer enemies or faster ones (as larger enemies are wont to stride longer than smaller ones) would be a lot more fair. And fair in this case means more blood for less purpose.
